Musings on Vox Sola
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Yet another experiment that endeavors to answer the question: How many pairings can a fanfiction author get out of a single episode from season one? [Most chapters rated T. In progress]
1. Hovis

A/N: Hey, it's not like I need a break from writing. It's not like I need sleep or peace of mind ever again. That being said, welcome to another experiment along the same lines of Musings On A Dead Stop. You know the trend: each chapter features a different pairing until I run out of them. Every fanfiction author has their thing. Alelou with her TNT Missing Scenes...Sensara with her minor Vulcan characters...and EnlightenedSkye with her Musings series? We can only hope.

Beta read by BonesBird, to all whom due thanks. This is rated T for caution, language, and expected eventual sexual situations. Reviews welcome.

Poor Travis...little does he know that his ideal evening isn't going to go off as planned.

**Musings on Vox Sola**

**Hovis**

Hoshi Sato was having a _terrible_ day.

It wasn't that she had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed; hell, she had been lucky to get up _at all_ after her most recent bout of insomnia had kept her awake long past midnight. She had stumbled into the bathroom, suspecting that a long, hot shower would wake her up, only to find that she had missed her chance and most of the warm water had already been used up by her fellow crewmen preparing for a busy alpha shift. So, after a quick, unfulfilling dunk in the lukewarm sludge that passed itself of as recycled water, she moved towards her closet. There, another unpleasant surprise—it seemed as if she had neglected to take her uniforms to the quartermaster the previous evening. It was preposterous. She was an adult, not some immature university student who had to be reminded to pay a visit to the laundry rooms. But she _had_ forgotten, she had to acknowledge that, and that was how Hoshi found herself trailing a trio of dismayed Kreetassans along with a few other bridge officers, sporting a tangled ponytail, wrinkled jumpsuit, and a translator of her design that never seemed the freaking _work_ when she needed it to.

Yes, it surely had been a morning for the history books, and as she sat at her station nursing a punishing tension headache from the entire ordeal, she decided that it could really only get worse.

Her cheek was resting in her slender palm, her eyes screwed shut with concentration, when she heard it for the first time. Besides the ambient noise that accompanied the frenzy of activity on the bridge, there was a low frequency humming sound that was threatening to drive her up the wall if it did not cease _immediately_.

"Does anybody hear that?" She inquired to no one in particular, not expecting anyone to pay her any mind. After all, another first contact had been royally bungled today, and she was, for all intents and purposes, most likely culpable.

Travis Mayweather, to his credit, entertains her question. "What, the static?"

She shakes her head. For any large ship traveling an extended distance, that is to be expected, but this is something different. "Frequency distortions mixed in with the static."

She's too focused on her console to notice that Travis has sat back in his chair and thrown one of his trademark disarming grins her way. "You've got better ears than we do," he says, and it's true. The helmsman knew that his fellow officer was more than likely in a bad mood following the morning's incident, and was willing to try nearly anything to cheer her up.

After a few seconds, the mildly flirtatious compliment notwithstanding, Hoshi concluded, "It's coming from the comm system."

Sub-Commander T'Pol, forever the wet blanket to her harmless grievances, hardly draws her attention away from her work to ask, "Have you run a diagnostic?"

"_Twice_," she replied, feeling the familiar heat of irritation rising in her stomach. Normally, she would have let the science officer's peevish questions slide, but her emotions were closer to the surface than they had been in a long time. Biting her lip and sliding away from her verbal sparring partner, she acquiesced, "Guess today is just not my day."

A few yards away, Travis watches Hoshi carefully, innately tuned in to her body language, which is more telling at the moment than it is typically. The two had been friends for a few months now, hitting it off at the beginning of the mission, seeing as they were the only junior officers among the senior staff. Together, they had shared a myriad of youthful tribulations, some exultant, some not so much. This was one of those times.

He knows he can't do much to brighten her spirits in the way of his usual sense of humor while everyone is watching, so he endeavors to broach a somewhat touchy subject. "How's the translation coming along?"

"Slowly," she acknowledged, immersing herself in her data once more. Suddenly, she sat up, exclaiming, "_Qwajat_, their word for eat…"

"What about it?" He prompts her instantly.

"With emphasis on the first syllable, _qwa_-jat means to mate," she said dryly, her eyebrows climbing up into her hairline. This was remarkable, not to mention that it might somehow explain the disagreement that had happened earlier.

Travis glances over at her, ignoring the rather childish sensation of butterflies in his stomach at the sound of Hoshi saying those _particular_ words. Gruffly, he nods. "I can see how that might cause some confusion over dinner."

Had she been in a better mood, she would have laughed at the helmsman's innocent comment. However, she continued, "Context is critical in every language, but Kreetassan has the most subtle variations I've ever seen." Then, not feeling as if her conversational partners were fully understanding her plight, she pressed, "The same word can have a dozen different meanings."

Before Travis can say something in the way of reassurance, the Sub-Commander says, "We rely on you to recognize the difference, Ensign."

Oh, no. This was _not_ good.

As he watched, Hoshi scoots back from her station and demands to know, "You think it was my fault?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

Sato's tone at that moment, dangerously low with a slight lilt, set off all kinds of warning bells in Travis's mind. He had observed enough arguments between his mother and father to know where this was heading.

"I simply noted that linguistic matters fall within your responsibility. For all we know, it was Mr. Tucker's table manners that offended them," the Vulcan replies smoothly. From his vantage point, Mayweather can see Hoshi set her jaw and go in for the kill.

"But you think if I might have picked up the language faster, they might not have stormed off the ship." It was what she assumed the entire crew thought.

"There's no need to react emotionally," T'Pol admonished, saying the one thing that Travis thought you should never tell a woman when she is upset. Then, her _pièce_ _de résistance_: "Try to learn from failure. It could make you next first contact more successful."

It's valuable advice, he has to admit, if a bit misplaced and not very sympathetically worded. Travis watches the communications officer mumble a few words of very sarcastic thanks and turn back to her work. He admires her tenacity, her wit, her sense of humor…well, damn near _everything_ about her. And that's why as she watches her discuss the annoying high frequency she keeps encountering with _Enterprise_'s chief engineer, he begins to formulate a plan to get her mind off of the morning's ill fated meeting with the Kreetassans.

_Midnight. Ice cream. The sweet spot. Who could say no?_


	2. ATP

A/N: I was encouraged to see such a strong response to my first chapter, thank you very much! I feel like I haven't explained this series well enough for the benefit of those who haven't read MOADS. Each chapter is a stand alone ficlet, and each one features a different pairing. Although we might mention another pairing in future chapters, this is by no means a chronological story. My bad! I forget sometimes that you guys aren't in my mind.

You all know that I have a soft spot for ATP, always have. Who can blame me? They can do anything together. Fic rec time: if you've got the opportunity, I highly suggest anything by Gammara (_Plan B_ or _Best First Contact Ever_ especially) or Anna Yolei's _The Enterprise Spring Vacation_. They're the kind of ATP fics that you can read any chapter and it instantly leaves you in a better mood.

One thing-if any chapter's pairing doesn't strike your fancy, I encourage you to skip it. I don't want to have any particular shipper camp upset over this, especially because I've just warned you about it and your chapters will come in due time. Love you guys, I really do!

The title of the episode comes from the Latin, I have discovered. That is to say, _vox_ meaning voice and _sola_ being very near to _solis_, meaning lone or only. I alluded to that a little here. Cheers.

**Musings on Vox Sola**

**ATP**

To think that this whole mess had started with an innocent touch.

When Lieutenant Reed had shown up, force field modulator in hand, Jonathan Archer hadn't had much on his mind. He had won the battle, but lost the war in terms of intellectual coherence; while the gelatinous being had incapacitated his fellow crew members in its web of tendrils, he had remained entirely aware of his surroundings in such a manner that he would be hard pressed to explain at a later date. He knew that his thoughts were tied in to that of the creature and its other captives, and while he had sensed their panic and urgency before they lapsed into unconsciousness, he mostly experienced waves of all encompassing, irrepressible calm.

Had he been entirely lucid, he might have compared it to floating on one's back several hundred feet out into the ocean—no pervading sounds of the outside world could reach him there. Perhaps it was the fact that his very life's essence was being drained, but as the initial terror of the situation had faded, he began to think of the being in a maternal sense. In his placated state, he encountered a fleeting thought that this must be what being within a womb is like. He was cognizant of what was happening around them, even down to the stately pace of Crewman Rostov's breathing, but when he tried to respond, he found that he was unable to react.

He feels several jolts of pain as the creature's tendrils collide with the force field, but the most he can manage is to flicker his eyelids in discomfort. The web holds him several yards off of the ground, so he knows that his crew cannot see him, but with every fiber of his being he's attempting to shout to them, to offer some sign that _yes_, he is still alive, he will be okay, everyone is going to be okay.

That's when he hears her voice. "Lower the force field." It comes out so low and melodious that he considers for a moment that maybe his second in command had seen him move and she knew in that endearingly logical mind of hers that the horrors of the ordeal were past. The next thing she says betrays her unease, as she barks to an unwilling Malcolm, "_Lieutenant_!"

Somewhere behind his eyelashes, a light flickers, then ceases to be. Jonathan feels himself being lowered to the ground, his every muscle screaming after the extended period of no activity. It's like he hasn't slept in ages; everything feels _heavy_, so _incredibly heavy_, and he gratefully collapses to the deck plating.

T'Pol is there in an instant, sitting down on her haunches, seemingly concerned for his well-being. He lifts himself onto his elbows, only to feel her hand, her feather light touch, make tracks from his cheek to the side of his temple. Electricity shoots through his body in that instant, giving Jonathan the strength to raise his head and look at her.

That's when he sees it. Her hazel eyes are widened with fear and unmistakable concern. His typically staunch, level-headed science officer had been _worried_ for him.

After a check up from Doctor Phlox, a shower, and a much needed shot of caffeine, Archer feels like a new man. They're a half hour from the creature's home world, so he decides to sneak in a much needed meal in his personal mess.

Trip, not surprisingly after his lapses in memory and control, is much worse for wear and has agreed to stay in sickbay overnight. And that's how he finds himself digging into a heaping plate of pasta in the middle of the afternoon, alone save for a very silent Vulcan.

He wasn't sure why she had accompanied him to sickbay after the medical team had arrived. In addition, there really wasn't any explanation as to why she had escorted him here and why she still remained, except for one small detail, something that had remained unspoken.

There had been no shortage of casualties and accidents in his past, but for some reason this near loss had touched T'Pol more than any other. She respected Jonathan—no, the _Captain_—and they had come extraordinarily close to losing him in yet another hapless incident. And although the rational part of her mind repeatedly told her that there was no reason to stay with him, that she really _should_ be looking into preparing a shuttlepod for the upcoming away mission, there was a frivolous part of her psyche that felt as if she had to make up for lost time.

It was ridiculous. Their relationship was nothing but professional; they rarely spoke of anything outside their vocations, something she insisted on. But even as they sat in relative silence, she had to admit to herself that she _might_ even enjoy his company from time to time.

"Something's been nagging me, Sub-Commander," he began, resisting the urge to point at her with his fork or talk around a mouthful of food, for he knew how she abhorred poor table manners.

"What might that be?" She asks, although she's not even looking in his direction.

"The language of this creature," he began, "from what Hoshi said, they seem to have no pronouns, no verb tenses, or any concept of self."

"Perhaps they prefer to prioritize the best interests of the entire organism," she suggests. Typically, she would feel up to a philosophical debate with this man, but the stress that had come with the rush to decipher its syntax had really taken a toll on her. What she needed was a good meditation session, but that would have to wait.

"I wonder what it would be like to talk to all of them together. Would there be multiple voices, or just one lone—"

T'Pol stands suddenly. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I need to select the crew for the return of the creature. Doctor Phlox and I agreed that it would be in your best interest to take the rest of the evening for yourself."

That would be nice. He could catch up on his reading, take Porthos for a walk, maybe even pay a visit to Trip in sickbay with the water polo game they had been in the middle of before they had been interrupted.

Just before she reached the door, Jonathan called out to her, "Wait, Sub-Commander!"

He could see her shoulders lower, as if she had visibly sighed. When she turns, he's surprised to see even more traces of emotions in her eyes.

"You seemed rather concerned about us when you ordered Mr. Reed to lower the force field," he says, not knowing where exactly he's going with this, but aware that he's wading into dangerous territory.

"Of course," she replies, the raise of a single eyebrow indicating that she finds it to have been a daft statement. "The ship needs its crew and its captain."

"The ship?" He echoes rhetorically.

"Yes, the ship," then, turning to step out into the hallway, "_I_ need my Captain." It's under her breath, so quiet of a statement that it nearly escapes Jonathan's notice.

Almost.


	3. Troshi

A/N: This was inspired by a text post prompt by Tumblr user Britt startrekslut. Less than you expect, more than you want. Hope this fits your vision, dear!

Next will probably be my minor character pairing (Rostov/Kelly, because he seemed a little _too_ enthusiastic to get her to that movie) or some HTP femmeslash. The latter is difficult to write well, but I'd wager that one of the best specimens out there is Terias McKlay's _Sleepless In Space_. Simple, understated, classy.

I'll be graduating high school in less than two weeks. Where has all the time gone?

**Musings on Vox Sola**

**Troshi**

It is well past midnight when she and her colleagues are dismissed from duty, heavy footsteps leading away from cargo bay two and fanning out into different directions. The medical team led the way, toting various crewmen to sickbay, their expressions eerily calm and limbs akimbo. Later, Malcolm Reed left quietly, perhaps so as not to ingratiate himself to any of the more emotional aspects of the situation. Finally, when it was clear that their task was completed and there was little else they could do in way of recompense, the two women parted ways some distance down the corridor, without so much as an indistinct nod to indicate their departures.

Every part of Hoshi felt heavy, weighed down with the heady consequences of what she had just faced. There was something to be said about the slim moments immediately after a stressor is relieved, she decided, where the sudden absolution left oneself liberated. In the past twelve hours, she had dove headfirst into unfamiliar aspects of complex mathematics, deciphered an entire language from scratch, and had come to a greater understanding of one of her commanding officers. And now, what with her peers safe from harm and Enterprise speeding in the direction of the organism's home planet, her biggest concern of the moment should have been to seek some much needed rest.

Yet she knew that where she eventually to reach her bed, sleep would evade her that night, as it did most. It had become a habit of the woman's, one she wasn't especially proud of, to make a broad circuit of the lower decks before turning in for the night. The low drone of the engine and the thrum of activity as the evening shift went about their daily tasks served to soothe her mind on the nights when her insomnia prevailed.

Ensign Sato was a creature of habit, but seeing as she was already preoccupied with thoughts of the previous day, it didn't come as a surprise to her when her feet took a different route. This time, she back tracked up several decks and across the ship, arriving at the doors of sick bay, where the lights are already dimmed to simulate artificial twilight.

She takes a deep breath, almost to hesitate, but then forges ahead. It wasn't as if Phlox's domain was unfamiliar or threatening to her; it was more about what lay within.

The Sub Commander, it seems, has already beat her to the punch. The stoic Vulcan woman has pulled up a stool to the Captain's bedside, and the two are engaged in hushed conversation as two of the Doctor's aides attempt to clean him up. A majority of his body is coated in that foul gelatinous substance, so much so that if they were in a less stressful situation Hoshi would have found it humorous.

Jonathan says something that T'Pol takes some marginal offense to. Before she can stop herself, the science officer glances over her shoulder to the next few biobeds, where two engineering crewmen are swiftly regaining consciousness. Phlox is bent over the third body, the slumbering form of one of the members of Lieutenant Reed's security team, but nods his recognition to Hoshi when she enters. It's then she sees that in the far corner, a curtain has been pulled before a biobed to hide whatever is behind it from the room's occupants.

Her steps widen. She assumes the worst. Just as Hoshi is about to breach one of the cardinal rules of sick bay and enter the makeshift privacy boundary without permission, Cutler emerges from behind the curtain.

Elizabeth's face and hair appear unwashed, and her brow is furrowed with concern. Her bloodshot eyes serve as enough of an indication that she was called to action from the domain of Morpheus. While her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, the white, gummy material reaches her mid forearm. As she grasps at the towel slung around her neck, vainly attempting to wipe some of the offending substance off, she asks, "Hoshi? Are you alright?"

Although the woman before her is perhaps her closest friend aboard the ship, in her aggravated state the communications officer can't help but marvel at what an asinine question that was. This time, she holds her tongue.

"Is he awake?"

"He is," she replies softly, offering Hoshi a small smile. It's no mystery why the ensign has chosen to appear in sickbay this evening, when her potential paramour is yet again laid low by a mission gone awry. "You can see him now, if you want."

Of course that's what she wants. Isn't it written all over her face? Just before Hoshi enters, Elizabeth manages to caution, "He may not be the most coherent right now."

A certain state of incoherence is not unusual for the southerner. What with an accent so thick you could spread it over biscuits, Trip was hard enough to understand when entirely sober. But for those that had had the distinct misfortune of seeing him at his worst, anything less than his peak joviality was disconcerting.

After he and Lieutenant Reed had been rescued from a disabled shuttlepod with only a few hours left of oxygen to separate the dead from the living, Hoshi had been the third one to visit her friends. Trip's speech had been slurred slightly, his sentiments dopey with liquor, and his hands were incredibly, incredibly cold. There were no words to express how fearful she had felt at that moment. For once, she understood the old adage about not knowing what one had until it was gone.

Her affection for the older man had snuck up on her almost without her noticing. He was clever, his wit sharp as a switchblade, and his sense of humor was both infuriatingly juvenile and unfortunately very cloying. Their relationship had begun as endearingly as it could, almost with a sibling dynamic, before evolving into something transitional which defied conventional explanation. Yes, Sato felt affection for Trip Tucker, but she wasn't sure what else there was to that.

The chief engineer looks uncharacteristically weak, his head slowly raising as she enters his temporary sanctum. With some effort, he smiles.

"How are you feeling?" She questions, standing a safe distance away, her concerns merely casual.

"Like hell," he mumbles, rolling over. His fingers extend and come together, and Hoshi knows that he's reaching for her.

She slides out a stool out from under one of the cabinets, sitting so close that her knees touch the bedframe. Hoshi takes his hand again, not failing to notice how clammy it is.

"I'm sorry we couldn't help you sooner. I was working as fast as I could, I swear it," she assures him, suddenly feeling the need to persuade him that the rest of the ship hadn't forgotten about him in his predicament.

"Hosh, come on," he chides, again using a pet name that he knows she hates. "I always believed you were. Even when that damn _thing_ was all inside my mind, I never gave up hope that you and the Sub Commander would figure something out."

"You have too much faith in me," she says, and she truly thinks that it is true.

"Maybe, but you need to stop being so hard on yourself. I'm alive, aren't I?" He pokes at the chest of his uniform, which is now drying and sticking out at odd angles.

"Barely," she snorts with disdain. It isn't long before the snort turns into a series of sniffles, and in the space of a few seconds Hoshi begins to cry softly.

Trip reaches up to try and interrupt the flow of tears streaming down her cheek, but falls short and settles with grasping her other hand. "It's alright," he whispers, watching as she folds into his embrace. It's evident that she's both physically and emotionally drained. It doesn't come as a surprise; he feels very near the same way at the moment.

"No, it's really not. I almost lost you," she glances up, finding some comfort in his affectionate gaze. "And you know how many times I've come close to that before."

_Lord_, did he ever. If Trip was a superstitious man, he might think that the universe was out to get him, so numerous were his mishaps thus far in _Enterprise_'s mission. He feels incredibly guilty in that moment, guilty for causing his crew such strife, and for causing Hoshi such pain.

"It's too bad, then," his chapped lips whisper over her knuckles, causing her to come to attention.

Her tears have subsided, leaving only sagging shoulders and a defeated expression in their wake. "What do you mean?"

"It's too bad that I'm not going anywhere. In fact, you might as well go to Jon's personal mess and bring back the water polo game we were in the middle of. If you're willing to stay up with me until the Doc's ready to release me, I can teach you the finer points of the game."

That's a lie; he barely knew said points himself before Jon bothered to teach them to him, but she doesn't have to know that. It encourages Hoshi that even while Trip is in such poor condition, he's willing to share something he loves with a person he cares about.

Without skipping a beat, she bounds to the curtain to peek out of it. "What if the Captain wants to watch?"

This hadn't occurred to him before, but as she holds back the drape, he sees the man in question engrossed in an argument with his favorite verbal sparring partner, the one with pointed ears. It was incredible. Did those two _ever_ stop fighting?

"I think he's busy at the moment. Now, hurry up, before I change my mind."

They both know that they're in no danger of that. Hoshi takes a step forward, stops, and returns to his bedside. Before she can keep herself from acting on a particular whim, she leans down and kisses his cheek.

He opens his mouth to speak, probably something that was the product of the pure lack of grace under pressure, but she's out the door before he can even utter a word.


	4. HTP

A/N: I've been wanting to write this pairing for a while. Although slash isn't my forte, I really tried to make this even less subtle than blink and you'll miss it. I thought about emulating the style of Nostalgia's fantastic little ficlet _Cut_, but wound up with this. Drink it in and be merry, because the Grinch's heart grows a few more sizes in this chapter.

**Musings on Vox Sola**

**HTP**

It's been a long night for both Hoshi and T'Pol.

Their shifts were supposed to be over six hours ago. That's enough time to have a respectable meal, a hot shower, _and_ a cat nap if one was lucky. The crew of the _Enterprise_ was well known for working overtime when the ship was in peril, but the stakes were particularly high this time.

The two women are in the mess hall, at separate tables, facing away from each other. From the way in which their project had been going, Hoshi wasn't sure that she'd be able to sit any closer to the Vulcan, let alone converse with her any more frequently than to update her on her progress. That is, if there was any.

"What if we used a bilateral algorithm?" The creature's language is singularly the most complex tongue they've ever encountered. They've used up nearly all of their resources trying to crack it.

"Already tried," Hoshi responded, her eyes drifting to the nearly empty flask of caffeinated tea before her. Would it be so wrong for her to have another cup?

"Did you compensate for frequency drift?"

That was it. That was the question that would send her over the edge. "I wouldn't be much of a comm officer if I didn't." She tried to bite her tongue, but the sharp remark came out before she could clamp down on her frustration.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Vulcan woman start, then sit up even straighter. "Allowing your emotions to control you won't help solve this problem, Ensign," T'Pol advised.

"Neither will questioning everything I do," Hoshi countered. Really, one more tidbit of her advice and she thought she might go ballistic.

T'Pol sounds a little offended at that. Quietly, she says, "You asked for my help."

So the things she said did, in fact, have some effect on Little Miss Pomp and Circumstance. "I didn't ask for you to keep count of every single time I make a mistake or to second guess all of my decisions."

Hoshi can tell that her sharp tongue is beginning to wear her down. The impending threat of losing five crew members was weighing heavily on her as well. "As First Officer, it's my duty to supervise you."

"This goes beyond duty, Sub-Commander. You've been looking over my shoulder ever since you came on board, double checking my log entries, my translations—"

"It's my job," T'Pol cut in.

"Is that _all_ we're talking about here?" Hurt and pain were written clearly all over Hoshi's expression. All she had wanted to do was please the regal woman sitting next to her, to make her proud. She envied her sometimes, her flawless composure and grace under pressure. From the brief moments she could catch the science officer with her guard down—like that time she had taught her how to meditate aboard the deserted Klingon ship—she knew that underneath the rigid exterior lay an empathetic, genuine person. So why could she not show it more often?

The tension in the room was at its climax, but Hoshi still had one more question. And the answer T'Pol would give had the potential to change everything. "You don't think I belong on _Enterprise_, do you?"

Her companion sets aside her PADD and stylus for the first time in the better part of an hour. Sliding back from the table, she turns to face Hoshi. Now, they are sitting so closely their knees are almost touching.

"On the contrary, it would be a great loss to Starfleet if you were not a part of this crew," T'Pol took the opportunity to confess her true feelings on the matter. Without a certain communications officer on the complement, the bridge would have a crucial component missing. "If you feel I've been unfair to you, I apologize. I hold you to a high standard, Ensign, because I know you are capable of achieving it."

Hoshi's expression fell. Was it possible that the female Vulcan, with a verbal repertoire as sharp as steel, harbored a secret, softer side? If that was true, she looked forward to exploring it, like a previously undiscovered dialect. And as the science officer would shortly say, any code could be broken. On an impulse, she reached forward and lay her hand on T'Pol's upper arm.

"Thank you," she murmured, because she didn't know what else to say.

To her surprise, T'Pol looked at her hand like it was on fire. From her temples, a flattering green blush began to spread its way down across her cheekbones.

She immediately removed her hand, reaching behind her to retrieve her translation matrix. Never before in her life had she been more enthused to get back to work. "Shall we continue?"

For several seconds after Hoshi turned, T'Pol stayed motionless, as if she was contemplating the ramifications of this encounter. Then, after a few moments, she returned to the task at hand.


	5. Rostov and Kelly

A/N: Just a little thing to tide us over between chapters of _Bostanai_. As many of you know, I love doing my minor character pairings and reading into body language and little gestures. This ficlet uses the Rostov and Kelly headcanons I developed in _Musings on a Dead Stop_. Rostov is so easy to bend into a pairing because he might actually be the elusive everyman that romantic comedies try so hard to nail down. Bless his soul, and those cute little dimples too.

Next time: Archer/Trip slash? I think so.

**Musings on Vox Sola**

**Rostov/Kelly**

Crewman Michael Rostov had never paid much attention to movie nights until she had joined his team.

It seemed to be a constant in the universe. Planets revolved around their stars, _Enterprise_ pressed on through the dimensionless ether of space, and Commander Tucker always picked the most _asinine _films to showcase every Monday night.

He'd seen _Wages of Fear_ dozens of times already. His roommate at MIT was a classic film buff, and that often meant that he would bring out data modules and force Michael to sit through the criterion collection's commentary of movies that hadn't been interesting when they first aired fifty years ago, and sure as hell weren't that interesting _now_. But somehow they had endured the test of time through world wars and desolation, so that warranted his respect at least partially.

Michael didn't hate a lot of things, but he _detested_ French cinema. From his perspective, it was all snooty elitists in berets trouncing about Parisian boulevards and speaking rapidly in breathy tones, as if it was their sole goal to make things difficult to the people who made the subtitles. Perhaps it was his wont as a Russian expatriate to abhor the French, but he didn't like to dwell on it very much.

What had consumed his thoughts for much of the past month was not a movie or engineering concept, but a beautiful young lady that had just been promoted to alpha shift. Crewman Jacqueline Kelly was an astrometrics specialist by trade, which had translated fairly well into their department when she had enlisted two years prior.

Having been born and raised in the Bronx, she conducted herself with the sort of no nonsense attitude that Michael had come to expect from none other than Chief himself. However, unlike Commander Tucker, her skin was ebony and her eyes were the color of fine European chocolate. She wore her hair tied back in a low ponytail, much like a majority of the female crewmen did, and she always smelled faintly of vanilla. Not to mention that she was rumored to have _incredible_ skills wielding the hyperspanner.

Rostov was immediately smitten.

She seemed a little standoffish at first, preferring to focus on her work than socialize, but eventually she had warmed up to the well intentioned goofball. They had enjoyed many a supper together in the company of fellow crewmen from engineering, and Michael had even enlisted her help for a few of his legendary pranks, but they had yet to make anything official. With any luck, that would change tonight.

He'd meant to be spontaneous in his suggestion to escort her to the movie. At the beginning of their shift, he had broached the subject and was pleased that she seemed enthused about the idea. Nevertheless, as the day continued and they immersed themselves in upgrades to the engines, movie night was all but forgotten.

"We're going to have to sit in the back," he says to her as he descends the staircase to the bottom level. The strained tone of his speech betrayed his anxiety that she had forgotten about her promise, or worse yet, was deliberately leading him on because she didn't want to go with him.

Kelly didn't even look up at him. Her eyes were trained on the controls before her as she adjusted measurements for the intake valves on the impulse drive. "One minute," she replies, her voice saccharinely sweet.

"I hate missing the beginning," he confesses, although it's a blatant lie. Michael is beginning to grow frustrated with what he perceives to be her purposeful attempts to evade him. He lays his hands on the rungs of the ladder, prepared to climb atop the engine to reach her.

"It's on the computer. You can watch it whenever you want." When she glances back to him, he's relieved to see her eyes flash with mischief.

"It's not the same, Jackie. I don't want to go back and watch the beginning when I know how it ends," he grouses, pretending to swoon in mock distress. After working the film up to her by relaying Tucker's reactions to it, he hoped he hadn't let her on to the fact that he'd already seen it. There was a part near the end that always made him cry. He had childishly planned ahead for the moment where he could console his paramour; although it was more likely that she would wind up holding _him_ after everything was said and done.

An alarm goes off on the screen before her. Laughter cut short, she concludes, "The power just went off on D deck, cargo bay two. The lighting grid's down."

Like hell he was going to let his chance at romance get away from him. "It's probably just a blown relay. Leave it for the night shift!"

Having come from beta shift, and earlier than that from gamma, Jacqueline was indignant to have jokes made at her colleagues' expense. "If it's just a blown relay, it'll take you ten minutes to fix."

He catches the flashlight she throws him, followed by a scanner. "Here, the comm's out too."

Noticing how amused she appeared at the entire situation, Michael decided that he _couldn't_ be angry. He respected her too much for her devotion to her work. This was the very same woman that had worked her way through university waiting tables and had eventually graduated top of her class. He certainly couldn't say the same.

Whistling to himself as he makes his way down to the pertinent deck, Rostov begins to think fondly forward to unwinding with Jacqueline during the movie.

-0-

His curiosity had again proven to be his downfall. Seconds before being the first victim of the strange gelatinous creature that had taken up residence in the cargo bay, he had opened his communicator to report an odd sort of intruder.

It had been twenty minutes since Jacqueline sent him out on a mission, and five minutes since she had been ready to leave for movie night. She had even stepped into the bathroom to freshen up, taking the time to fluff her hair and apply a bit more of her signature perfume.

"Engineering," she answers the hail. When there's no response, she rolls her eyes. "Michael, is that you?"

In the background, there's a faint noise that sounds suspiciously like the trickling of fluid. It takes her a few seconds to realize that this can't be one of his pranks, because the bumbling idiot she had grown to know and love couldn't _possibly_ be this cryptic.

Taking a flashlight for herself, she begins the trek down to cargo bay two.

-0-

Being a part of the creature was almost like an out of body experience. He's completely aware of his surroundings, but unable to respond. In the back of his mind, he knows that there's someone else in the room with him, and they're saying, "There's some sort of life form in here!"

He recognizes the voice instantly, feeling illogically comforted by the presence of his friend. A few moments later, she's panicked. "It's got Rostov, sir! He's conscious, but he can't—"

Rostov. That was who he was. For a second it had slipped his mind. There's a gasp, then the monster lurches as it takes hold of its next target.

He's barely clinging on to consciousness now. Everything he sees through his slit eyelids appears to be shimmering, as if he's in a lucid dream. He's connected to Jacqueline now, and because he's having difficulty connecting cause with consequence, he feels irreverently pleased about this. He can sense her thoughts, and suspects that she can sense hers, too. And although they can't escape, at least they're surrounded within and without each other.

It was sure to be a splendid sort of discovery.


End file.
